


Failure is Not an Option

by prometheanTactician



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:45:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1486915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prometheanTactician/pseuds/prometheanTactician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strider’s have a terrible habit of worrying less about themselves, and more about literally anyone else. Hunger Games AU, Alpha Strider’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Failure is Not an Option

You are six years old, and you wake up screaming for your brother.

There’s a rushed clatter through the house up until the moment he bursts through your door, sword in hand, looking around frantically for an intruder before he notices your tiny hands reaching for him. Sighing, he puts down the weapon and scoops up little six year old you, holding you close. It’s comforting, his hand on the back of your head and his arms supporting you solidly, but you still shake with the remnants of your dream, even as he mutters soft comforts into your ear. He lays you in the bed, and for a moment you panic and cling to him harder, making a small, distressed noise. You’re not an emotive child, but your nightmares tend to get to you. He mutters a soft ‘trust me’ and climbs into the bed next to you, holding you close and rubbing your back as you begin to calm down. After you heave a sigh and start breathing normally, he speaks.

“What was it about?” His tone is quiet, as if there’s someone other than the two of you in the house to wake.

“The Reaping.” You all but squeak the words, and it makes you feel small and pathetic but you’re too exhausted and frightened to care. He sighs, kissing the top of your head.

“Dirk, your name doesn’t get put in ‘til you’re-”

“It wasn’t me.” It’s quiet for a long moment. Your voice shook, and you cling to him tighter, burying your face against his chest as a sob rips out of you. He doesn’t comment. He just holds you tighter, and you don’t need to explain who it was. You don’t need to explain having watched him be slaughtered on television for entertainment. He was your only family. All you had. You weren’t exactly keen on seeing him on his back skewered on his own sword.

“It won’t be me.” He says, after the silence, with a finality in his voice that you know has no right to be there. It very well could be, and you tell him as much. He just shakes his head. “Nah. Not me, man. Not me.” He leaves it at that, and you don’t have the heart to argue. You just keep holding on to him, and he keeps holding on to you, and if you cry that night, nether of you mention it.

The night before the Reaping, it’s okay to cry.

-

You’re seventeen, and your brother is screaming. Your Bro has always been cool, collected, the epitome of self control. To hear him panicking, freaking out to such a degree… Something serious must be going down. You spring out of bed, grabbing your katana, and run the short distance to his room, skidding to a stop and looking around frantically before realizing no one’s there. No one except your brother, who’s shot upright in bed, white as a sheet, shaking like a leaf and gasping for breath. He’s always been pale, being an albino, but he looks like he might be sick.

“Bro?” You try, carefully. Quietly. His head snaps to face you and something in him seems to… relax. He takes a normal breath.

“Dirk.” He sounds relieved, and you’re confused. You set your katana aside, and climb into bed with him without a word. He makes room, and you hold onto each other. You are not the most affectionate of families, or the most expressive, but this is standard fare when one of you has a nightmare. You run a hand through his hair comfortingly. You’re pretty blond, but his is platinum, white, standing in contrast with his dark red eyes. You only see them during these moments, as usually he wouldn’t be caught dead without his shades. But, then again, neither would you. You’re broader than him now, in the shoulders. Muscular where he’s lean, and he’s still a freakin’ string bean and towers over you, though you’re pretty tall yourself. His limbs are so long it’s like he’s the awkward teenager here rather than you, and you can’t even begin to decipher how they’re tangled with your own.

“What was it about?” You ask, quiet like you’re not the only two around, when you feel the shaking subside and his breathing even out.

“Reaping.” He responds just as quietly, if a bit curt. You sigh.

“Bro, you’re-”

“It wasn’t me.” He says immediately, not giving you the chance to point out that 18 is the maximum age for the Reaping. The room goes quiet and still aside from your breathing, and he just holds you tighter, not needing to explain exactly who it was. The maximum is 18. Bro is safe. You, however, are not. You don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. You just hold tighter and if he sobs into your hair that night, neither of you mention it.

The night before the Reaping, it’s okay to cry.

-

The next day, you’re thankful you hadn’t given him false reassurance that you wouldn’t be picked. He wouldn’t have believed it, anyway, but if you do regret something it was turning your head to look at him as you rushed to volunteer. His face was carefully blank, but the horror in his eyes was stuck in your head as you made your way up to the stage. Roxy was on the other side, and you knew your Bro was all too aware of what that meant. It was why you had volunteered, after all. So you could make sure she’d be safe.  
You would not allow Roxy to die, and only one person could survive. You would spend the Games protecting her with your life, and if you both made it, she’d be the one walking out whether she liked it or not. It wasn’t your name that had doomed you, it was hers.

When he comes to visit you before you’re sent off, he tries to bitch you out. Tries to lecture and yell, but he just starts crying. He’s trying not to, and it’s not like he’s bawling, but his voice shakes as he loses his shit and his cheeks are wet with tears. He shuts up when you hug him, just shaking silently. You make him promise not to blame Roxy, not to hate her for this. He makes you promise that if you fail and she dies, you’ll still try to win. You both promise, but you don’t think either of you are sure if you mean it.  
It doesn’t matter, anyway. You won’t fail. You never do.


End file.
